


All the Voices in His Head

by annabeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult/Child Relationship, Dubious Sanity, Harry is almost seventeen, M/M, Snogging, bad parental decisions, consensual snogging with an adult, psuedo-incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Sirirus survived Azkaban without losing his sanity, but what Azkaban failed to do, his godson is doing quite nicely, and the voices in his head won't let him forget it.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 249





	All the Voices in His Head

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written long, long ago, and then finished in 2017. Guess I'm just posting a rash of old fics today (only two more to go, but I probably won't post them today). I think this is the last HP fic I wrote. I always did have a lady-boner for Sirius/Harry...

When Sirius had been at Hogwarts in his youth, he had taught himself how to conceal his emotions from his enemies—mainly Snape. He had become so proficient at it that he could even _not feel them_. It had served him well throughout his years at school.

But it served him even better when he was in Azkaban. By not feeling emotions of joy and peace, he succeeded in driving the dementors away. With nothing positive to feed on, they ignored him after several months, and Sirius was able to keep himself sane. Just barely. When the screaming and whimpering of the other prisoners became too much to bear, he would transform into Padfoot, who didn’t mind noise nearly as much as he did.

The rest of his time in Azkaban was spent reliving those last ghastly moments, when Peter Pettigrew had cast the spell that had murdered twelve Muggles. Of course, it was not the thirteen _he_ , Sirius, was accused of—because Peter didn’t kill Sirius. Perhaps he had hoped the dementors would do it for him. Sirius went over and over these events in his mind, sometimes even reenacting them in his tiny cell, pacing round and round and counting the number of steps between each new memory. Surprisingly, the dementors _and_ the human guards ignored this behaviour. It was likely that they thought he had gone mad. If they had known otherwise, things might have been very different.

Despite all of that, he couldn’t cloak his emotions on the subject of James and Lily and their son, but it didn’t really matter, because he was filled with frustration, bitterness, and regret. The baby was his godson, and it was his responsibility to raise the child now that his parents had been murdered, but being thrown in Azkaban rather ruined the chances of that happening.

No matter what he thought about Harry—and he imagined the child in all sorts of ways—nothing prepared him for the real Harry. He was exactly like he expected, in some respects, and yet he was nothing like Sirius believed he would be. For one thing, he looked just like a gawky teen-age James with green eyes. That was okay, though, Sirius could handle that. It wasn’t so much looking at his godson and seeing the spitting image of his best friend, or gazing into those eyes and having it send himself reeling—because it was exactly like Lily looking back at him. But all of those things he was prepared for. This was his best friend’s son, it wasn’t unusual for him to look like his parents. But it was Harry’s _scent_ which threw him for the biggest loop. It was completely unique to Harry. There wasn’t even the barest trace of James of Lily in his scent, just _Harry_.

And despite his best intentions, living with Harry—especially in a house like 12 Grimmauld Place—was like being in a Hell worse than Azkaban. For one thing, the house was an exercise in torment all its own. Add some dementors and it would make a more gloomy and tortuous place than Azkaban. Sirius had promised himself that if he ever got out of Azkaban he would care for Harry the best way he knew how. After he escaped, he learned how hard that was going to be.

“Sirius,” Harry said, turning his quill round and round between his fingertips, “is becoming an Animagus very difficult?”

Sirius stirred the pot on the stove. In Molly’s temporary absence—she was upstairs wrangling the twins—it had fallen to him to keep an eye on dinner.

“Is that question going to help you with your homework?” he asked; Harry was supposed to be studying so he would be prepared for the start of term.

“Not a bit, really,” he replied, stuffing the feathered end of his quill in his mouth. Sirius tried to keep his eyes on the pot of bubbling stew. He was _not_ going to look at Harry, or his mouth, or the way he was chewing on that quill— _dammit he was looking_. He wrenched his eyes away. Harry tossed the abused quill down on the table and strode over to the stove, peering into the pot. Sirius tried not to breathe; years of being Padfoot had honed his sense of smell. Harry was so close, Sirius could see the drop of sweat clinging to his temple, for it was August and brutally hot.

“You ought to be working,” Sirius said. Harry snorted and went back to the table and flopped down into the chair. It was strange, Sirius thought, that no one else in the house had wandered in or out of the kitchen recently. He chanced a look over at Harry, who had his legs crossed on the chair and was chewing on his bottom lip.

“The subjects are even harder this year,” he remarked. Sirius allowed himself to inhale; surely it was safe to breathe now. But he was wrong: Harry’s unique scent lingered and taunted him. Sirius turned full body towards the stove. Harry’s care had been entrusted to him, he did not want to abuse it.

_But he’s almost seventeen, he’s old enough_ , whispered the tiny traitorous voice in his mind. Sirius stirred the pot so violently that stew splashed onto his ragged shirt.

“Wish I could get some new clothes,” Sirius murmured.

“Wish I was an Animagus,” Harry replied.

“It’s very painful at first,” Sirius said. This was a dangerous avenue for Harry to explore. But before they could continue their conversation, they were interrupted.

“Oi, Harry dear, make sure you eat up all your stew and finish your homework. It seems I have to make a trip to Diagon Alley, and the twins have insisted on coming. So we’ll be travelling by Floo powder, just this once—it should be safe, since the house is Unplottable and all.” Molly tossed her curls away from her face.

“Where’s everyone else?” Sirius said gruffly. Molly grinned brightly.

“It turns out everyone is quite busy, so you and Harry will have some quality time to yourselves. Get to know your godson better, Sirius.” Her voice turned scolding. “But don’t tell him more than he _needs to know_ ,” she warned.

“I know,” Sirius said. He waved to Molly as she bustled out of the kitchen.

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “Mrs. Weasley’s wonderful and all, but she is such a mother hen.” He twirled his quill and worried the pages of his textbook. Sirius smiled at the stew, where Harry couldn’t see. It was true, after all. Some quiet moments passed, and then the sounds of scuffling and shouting “Diagon Alley!” were heard, and then faded. Sirius abandoned the stew.

_He’s got that tangled windswept hair_ , murmured the little voice. _And he won’t mind._

Sirius looked over at Harry. It was now or never. Either he did the right thing, or he did the thing that felt right. Harry dropped one foot to the floor.

_He’s lovely_ , whispered the voice. Sirius shook his head and his shoulder-length hair hit him in the face. All of a sudden Harry looked up.

“Sirius?” he asked. Sirius smiled.

“Harry,” he said. “Have you ever snogged anyone?” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to hit himself upside the head. It was none of his business—he was an adult—he was supposed to protect Harry!

“No, never,” he said, and looked curiously at Sirius. “Where did that come from?”

_He’s just a child_ , cried another voice. _But so sexy. And innocent—his lips are begging for it._

Sirius grabbed his head. What Azkaban had not managed to do, his godson was doing quite effectively—making him insane.

“Would you like to learn?” The words popped out of Sirius's mouth without his permission. _Or so you tell yourself,_ said that little devil. Sirius was beginning to wonder if Voldemort was in his head.

Harry was watching him rather closely, now. Assessing. But what? Whether his godfather was a sick bastard, or a harmless loon?

He looked _so much_ like James. So much like a secret Sirius had kept for a couple dozen years: that he had always admired James, but more than that, he'd _wanted_ him. There had been a time, so brief it was almost unmemorable, when things looked like maybe he'd get what he wanted. When James and Sirius had been learning to become animagi and they had been together so often. One split second where Sirius had thought, when they were unbearably close, that James might accept the invitation of Sirius's lips.

But he hadn't, and then Lily had basically intervened. She hadn't meant to, Sirius knew that. But James had fallen quick and hard and the way Lily rebuffed him seemed to intrigue him even more.

Sirius could feel his heart beating too fast in his chest as he waited to see what Harry would do. Despite smelling different— _and delicious_ , the little voice reminded helpfully—Harry did resemble his father to a great degree, and it was truly messing with Sirius's head.

"With…" Harry paused, appeared to hesitate. "With who, Sirius?"

All at once he remembered the unwise words he'd blurted, and could feel himself flush. The stew on the stove bubbled, but Sirius was too distracted by Harry now to notice it consciously.

More to the point, why would Harry want to snog another guy? Sirius's ears felt hot, but then Harry unfolded his gangly form from the chair.

"Stew's boiling, Sirius," Harry said. His green eyes were fixed on Sirius's. "Aren't you my godfather?" This question seemed innocuous, but Sirius understood what the boy was asking. Harry was reminding him of who he was—what he was. Supposed to be, anyway.

Sirius turned down the gas on the stove; the stew settled into a pleasant little burble.

"I know," he told Harry, then set the ladle down behind him with a clatter and used both hands to frame Harry's face. "I never told anyone this," Sirius went on, "but I, uh, _wanted_ James. Never meant to be, of course, and he never knew about it. At least, I don't imagine he did."

"With you, Sirius?" Harry asked, very softly, coming straight to the point.

"Well, you remind me so much of your father," Sirius said rather helplessly. "It was just a thought."

"We can't," Harry said. But he didn't twist away, and he didn't try to move Sirius's hands. "Can't you imagine what the others would say?"

"No one ever has to know," Sirius said. "Besides, it's just practice. I know nothing else can come of it. A snog, Harry. I'll show you how to do it right, and then we'll forget it ever happened."

"Sounds pretty shady," Harry whispered, but he still wasn't pulling away. He closed his green eyes, and Sirius drew in a breath, chest tight till it almost hurt. If it weren't for his scent… even so, for half a second Sirius thought he was young again, watching his best friend, envisioning touching their lips together.

"Well?" Harry asked, his voice very low, almost tender. The textbook was apparently forgotten. The stew was abandoned to the stove, as Sirius leaned in and just _breathed_ for a moment, taking in the scent of _Harry_.

And then they were snogging. Only light pressure at first, Sirius's lips barely covering Harry's. Then he nudged Harry's mouth with his tongue, carefully touching the seam of his lips.

Harry didn't startle. He just parted his lips a little and let Sirius in. Was this truly a boy who had never been snogged? Sirius thought, as he pressed, at first, only the tip of his tongue inside. He found Harry's, and all at once, they were melting together, Harry's tongue swirling around his as he mimicked every move of Sirius's. Harry's body went soft and lax in his arms, entangling his own arms around Sirius. He almost forgot to breathe through his nose—he almost forgot how to do what he was doing, what he'd promised to teach Harry to do.

He explored Harry's mouth slowly, gently; he tasted and touched and lingered at soft places, and tangled his tongue with Harry's. He crept out of his mouth again, only to lick the curve of Harry's lower lip, to set his teeth carefully around it and tug it into his own mouth, where he sucked the soft lushness of it until it swelled.

When he let go, Harry followed. He copied Sirius, first tentatively mapping Sirius's own mouth, then drawing his lower lip into Harry's. Harry sucked too; he wasn't quite as gentle, but Sirius didn't think that was due to inexperience. It seemed as if Harry had learned very quickly how to snog, and how to do it well.

Did that make him a good teacher? He wasn't sure. He knew it didn't make him a good role model, but for once, all the voices were silent, and so Sirius pushed the thought away—forced himself not to care.

When Harry let go of Sirius's bottom lip, he suddenly took the initiative, tracing the shape of Sirius's mouth with the tip of his tongue. Sirius gasped, felt himself go stiff like he'd been shocked. Harry was… he was so _good_ at this. Sirius chased Harry back, prolonging things, wondering if Harry's young, untutored body was responding as fervently, as rebelliously as Sirius's. Sirius knew that Harry had to be able to feel his dick, hard sharp counterpoint to the softness of Harry's pose, his belly.

Sirius wanted to reach down, to cup Harry, to see if his godson were at all aroused—he seemed to be enjoying the snogging, right?

But that would be going too far, Sirius understood that. Harry, though, showed no sign of his interest in Sirius's lips flagging. He was devouring Sirius now; the snogging had become Harry's purview; suddenly the student had become the teacher, as Harry taught Sirius things about himself he'd never known.

It might have gone on all afternoon, gone on forever, even, if someone hadn't brushed too close to Sirius's mother's portrait. The shrieking broke the spell; Harry and Sirius sprang apart.

Harry's eyes were so, so bright; his lips swollen and red. He looked debauched. Sirius wondered what he, himself, presented.

"We don't have to forget," Harry whispered, short and quick. "But just because… well. Can't have it happening all the time, can we?"

_See, it's what he wanted,_ cackled the first little voice.

_But what have I done?_ murmured the other.

Then Harry smiled at him, confident and just a little secretive, and Sirius forgot about everything but this: _when can I snog him again?_

end.


End file.
